Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  His girlfriend noticed, but she didn’t complain. Connie Augustin was also a cocaine user whose hobby had gotten a bit out of control. Thin but shapely, the 24-year-old Augustin was a successful stripper who took her act to different clubs around the area and billed herself as a former “Miss Nude Ontario,” although she never specified when she won the title or who gave it to her. She lived in a nice but modest rented townhouse on Garth Road on the west side of Hamilton Mountain, not far from where Mailloux and Stadnick grew up. She shared it with her four-year-old son, Stewart Hawley, and Mailloux when he was in town. Hawley’s father lived in Kitchener and rarely visited.

  The rest of the story came out later in court. From Christmas until Valentine’s Day, Augustin estimated that she and Mailloux went through about $21,000 worth of cocaine. When the stash he had brought from Montreal ran out, Mailloux went to an old friend for more. Mario D’Alimonte worked as a bouncer for a disco at the Royal Connaught Hotel downtown and had access to all kinds of drugs. When Mailloux and Augustin first showed up on February 17, D’Alimonte joked about how frazzled they looked and suggested they needed a good night’s sleep more than another binge. He noticed that Mailloux seemed to tense up after that, so he cut the small talk and gave them what they had come for. The couple then raced back up the mountain to use the coke. After about two hours, Mailloux got up to use the phone. He was screaming obscenities at someone—but Augustin was used to that—and when he hung up, he seemed extremely agitated. He was shaking and freaking out. He had a hard time looking her in the eye for more than an instant. Getting caught up in the coke and the paranoia, she began to get nervous. He told her that D’Alimonte’s coke was no good, maybe even dangerous. She started to worry. Then he convinced her that D’Alimonte was hired by the Outlaws to kill him. He tried to flush the rest of the coke down the toilet (Augustin stopped him) and pulled out his gun.

  Back downtown, the phone conversation unnerved D’Alimonte so much that he loaded two shotguns and kept them with him wherever he went, even taking them to bed with him.

  Mailloux ordered Augustin to turn all the lights out, lock all the doors and pull all the shades. He sat on one of Stewart’s tiny stools at the front window, aiming his gun at everyone who walked by. He cocked and almost fired on the one person who walked up the steps to the porch until he recognized her. He screamed for Augustin and she ran to the door, grabbed her friend before she could press the doorbell and pulled her into the house.

  Cindy Lee Thompson was a friend of Augustin’s from work. Younger, prettier and less angry than Augustin, she made a lot more money. Although the 18-year-old had only been dancing for about six months, she had done well enough to be driving a brand-new Lincoln Continental and living in a bigger house and a better neighborhood than Augustin. Because of her age, she had to get special permission from the Liquor Licensing Board of Ontario for the right to work in an establishment that served alcohol; she even needed a letter of permission from her legal guardian. Although it got her a stripping license, the note’s signer has never been identified and his address (56 Sherman Avenue North) was fictitious. Because she wasn’t shy about showing off her near-instant wealth, Thompson made few friends among her peers, but she found one in Augustin. They shared clothes, went out drinking and snorted cocaine together.

  Without explaining what was going on, Augustin hurried Thompson into the kitchen, where they finished the last of the coke. When they finally started whispering about the situation, Thompson convinced her friend that in the state he was in, Mailloux was a lot more dangerous than any Outlaws could be. She also pointed out that if any other bikers were out there, they were out to get him, not her. Augustin thought about it for a second and made a plan. She tiptoed up the carpeted steps to Stewart’s room and carried him down to the kitchen. With the small boy clutched in her arms, she and Thompson ran out the side door and into the front bench seat of her 1975 Buick. But Mailloux heard them and pursued. Just as the ignition fired, he and his gun vaulted into the back seat. Before she could say anything, he pushed the cold, thick barrel of the gun into the back of Augustin’s neck and ordered her to drive.

  Without asking where, she drove. She stopped at the first red light, Stone Church and Upper James, and made her decision. At that point, Upper James is six lanes wide and at 3:40 a.m., there is virtually no traffic. Augustin figured the best way to save her son’s life would be to run. After all, Mailloux didn’t have anything against Stewart or Thompson, it was her, his girlfriend, who would have betrayed him by trying to run. It was her he would be after. In a desperate bid to save her son’s life, she opened the driver’s side door and ran as fast as she could.

  She was dead wrong. Mailloux’s immediate reaction was to fire. He shot her in the back and the bullet emerged through her right breast. Then he shot both Stewart and Thompson in the backs of their heads.

  They both died instantly.

  When he looked out the blood-spattered windows, he saw something he didn’t expect. Augustin—still alive—was running toward a car stopped on the other side of Upper James. He opened his door and started chasing her, shooting wildly. She had managed to get to John Perrins’s car and was desperately pulling on the door handle screaming “he’s going to kill me!” Perrins looked over and saw Mailloux storming at his car and reloading his gun. He fired again and Perrins stomped on the accelerator.

  Augustin stumbled, got up and ran over to the next car. Kevin Pomeroy worked with Perrins at Dofasco and had been at the same party that night. He was heading home to Mount Hope when he noticed that he’d lost a hubcap. He stopped and looked for it, and when he gave up, got back into the cab of his pickup. Less than a second later, Augustin got in beside him and was screaming. She was trying to tell him what was going on, but he couldn’t understand her. At the height of the confusion, he saw Mailloux through the passenger window. He was pulling on the door handle, but Augustin had wisely locked it. She was screaming at Pomeroy to drive, but he was frozen with fear and confusion. He heard a crash and a burning sensation in his chin; then he floored it and his truck fired across the intersection. A block later, he realized he’d been shot in the chin. But he didn’t panic. He drove two long blocks south to Rymal Road—the junction locals called Ryckman’s Corners—and stopped the truck in the parking lot of Target Variety.

  Bill Verrall was behind the counter and he recognized Pomeroy right away. The Target, open 24 hours, was the only late-night stop on the way from Hamilton to Pomeroy’s home in Mount Hope and he’d stopped in there many times for cigarettes or Cokes. When Pomeroy came in screaming something about being shot, Verrall thought he was joking. He changed his mind when he saw the blood. He called an ambulance. As he watched Pomeroy bleed, he decided it was smarter not to wait any longer and told his brother Paul, who had been stacking cases of soda, to drive him to the hospital. Pomeroy told them about Augustin, and the three men ran to the truck. They pulled on the doors, but she wouldn’t let them in. Pomeroy put his key in the door, but she kept pushing the locks down. After a few frantic minutes of trying, Paul drove Pomeroy to the emergency room at Chedoke-McMaster Hospital. Despite Bill’s entreaties, Augustin wouldn’t leave the truck until an ambulance arrived. With two bullet holes in her, she collapsed on the way to ICU at Henderson Hospital.

  When he saw Pomeroy’s pickup drive Augustin away, Mailloux knew he wasn’t going to be able to kill her that night and he fled. Without many options, he ran into Dr. William Cornell Park and hid in the bushes. Alerted by Bill Verrall, the Hamilton-Wentworth police sent four officers after him. Following the tips of eyewitnesses, they ran with their guns drawn and searched the park. One took a thorn to the eye and had to turn back, but the others combed through the trees and bushes in near-total darkness. The best of them, Sergeant Charles Bramlett, a former army NCO, spied a movement in a growth of cedars and approached it with his weapon drawn. Less than 100 feet away from each other, Bramlett and Mailloux both had their guns aimed at the other man’s head. Without blinkin
g, Bramlett walked toward Mailloux. He didn’t take his aim off Mailloux’s face, but he didn’t fire either. When the two men were less than 20 feet way, Bramlett heard it. “Bang!” Mailloux, out of bullets after having shot at least 30 times that night, kept squeezing the trigger, hoping that somehow the gun would fire. Every time he pulled, he yelled “bang!’ as loud as he could. Bramlett called the other officers over and they took Mailloux, shivering and babbling incoherently, back to the station.

  The next day, Augustin’s house was a very busy place. Neighbors, all of whom have asked to remain anonymous, reported that the place was visited at least three times. But it wasn’t the police who were collecting evidence. The first visit was early Friday afternoon. An older woman who lived on the other side of Garth Street said that “two guys in leather jackets drove their motorcycles right onto her front lawn.” The “tough-looking” pair “knocked on the door, looked in the windows, looked all around the house and then took off.” About an hour later, a different neighbor, a man two doors down from the first, saw a long-haired man in a black leather jacket ride up to the house. He parked on the street. He and a blonde woman who was also on the Harley walked up to the door and let themselves in. The witness did not notice if they used keys or not, but he was sure that they didn’t knock or use the doorbell. They spent a few minutes inside the house and left.

  About 90 minutes later, more bikers showed up. This time they brought a small pickup truck along with the bikes. They backed it up over the curb and onto Augustin’s lawn and dropped the tailgate. “They all looked the same with their black leather jackets and their beards and their long hair,” said a witness. “They were all scruffy-looking guys and they kept going in and out of the house; they were taking things out and throwing them into the truck.” After they were satisfied that there was no important evidence left in the house, they left.

  When the police searched the house, they found a lot to link Mailloux to the Hells Angels, including his colors, which they reluctantly returned when a judge declared them inadmissible as evidence, but no drugs.

  Stadnick returned to Montreal and was welcomed with open arms. Although Mailloux had totally fucked up, the Hells Angels didn’t hold it against Nurget. The boys from Sorel were used to watching guys taking too much cocaine and going nuts. What impressed them was that Stadnick had shown the courage, intelligence and resourcefulness to make sure that Mailloux would go down alone and that the cops would never find any connection that would jeopardize the club. They had wanted Stadnick to succeed, and when a crisis arose, he handled it with aplomb and efficiency.

  His stock rose even further when the Hells Angels learned that his presence in Ontario had thrown some fear into the local Outlaws. While former Hamilton Outlaws president Richard Williams was being tried for alleged possession of eight handguns and four sticks of dynamite, his lawyers convinced Crown Attorney Laverne Urban and Judge Walter Stayshyn that he should be allowed to carry a gun after his release from prison because of the danger posed to his life by the “Hells Angels presence” in town. Smart, good in a crisis and certified by the courts as a major threat to the Outlaws, Stadnick was clearly the man the Sorel chapter wanted to lead the club’s charge into the rest of Canada.

  Although his translator was gone, Stadnick got by. His French never evolved beyond a pidgin level, but many of the other members of the chapter had improved their English for the express purpose of communicating better with him and with the East regional office in Manhattan. Before long, Stadnick found himself riding farther and farther forward in the lineup of bikes.

  From the way he handled himself—his confidence, charm, bonhomie and ability to resolve disputes—many of the guys at Sorel began talking about how much Stadnick reminded them of Yves Buteau, who had since become the chapter’s president. It was strong praise. A close friend of Sonny Barger’s, the big, blonde Buteau was the only Canadian with his permission to wear the “Hells Angels International” patch. A former Popeye, Buteau is generally considered responsible for bringing them into the Hells Angels family by making them the dominant gang in Montreal. Brutal when he needed to be, as when he fueled the murderous war between the rival Atomes and Gitans to ensure the Popeyes’ success or when he, Mathieu and Trudeau put the bomb on McLean’s bike, Buteau’s real talent was tact. When he heard that ten Popeyes had walked out on a lavish bill at a biker-friendly restaurant, he leapt onto his bike, rode to the bistro and paid their tab in full. Unlike many bikers, particularly among the free-spirited Popeyes, Buteau showed a restraint and a knack for public relations that earned him the chapter’s presidency and the nickname “Le Boss.”

  Like Barger before him, Buteau knew that if the Hells Angels were to succeed as a business they would have to clean up their act. He encouraged members to shave and wash their clothes every once in a while and consider cutting their hair. He wanted to present a less relaxed look to clients and suppliers and discourage police harassment. Under Buteau, Hells Angels were instructed to keep a low profile, avoid petty crimes when possible and avoid confrontations with police, even backing down when necessary. All of Buteau’s rules were breakable except for one. Any Montreal Hells Angel caught using cocaine would receive an instant death penalty with no excuses and no appeals. Buteau had seen what excessive and even recreational use of the drug could do as many of his friends in the Popeyes went crazy or were crushed under mounting debts. With his wild past behind him and the ambitious dream of a coast-to-coast Canadian Hells Angels, Buteau knew that cocaine use was bad for business. “It’s like he [Buteau] always used to say: ‘Letting an addict sell drugs is like having a dog run a butcher shop,’” said Vincent, who knew Buteau when he was a Popeye and a Hells Angel.

  As good a manager as Buteau was, he was an even better diplomat. He’d gone to British Columbia to scout a gang called the Satan’s Angels. With three chapters, the Satan’s Angels had done a very good job dominating the drug trade in the Vancouver area. Modeling themselves after the American Hells Angels, the Satan’s Angels formed alliances with and supplied drugs to lesser B.C. gangs like the Coffin Cheaters of suburban Vancouver and the Devil’s Escorts of Kamloops. After a hugely successful police crackdown on heroin in 1981 crippled the industry, the Satan’s Angels successfully shifted their business interests to cocaine and prostitution. Impressed with their efficiency, reach and willingness to use violence, Buteau offered them membership in the Hells Angels. Thrilled that their heroes would accept them, the Satan’s Angels jumped at the chance to became the third, fourth and fifth chapters of the Canadian Hells Angels.

  Many of the top Canadian Hells Angels flew to British Columbia for the patching-over ceremony; some rode cross-country, but Laval’s Michel “Jinx” Genest and Jean-Marc Nadeau decided to take the bus. Eight hours into their trip, Genest fell asleep with his back to the window. Four Outlaws, including vicious Hamilton boy Mario “the Wop” Parente, who happened to pass the bus on Highway 17 just outside North Bay, Ontario, were shocked by what they saw. Although Genest’s face couldn’t be seen, his winged-skull Hells Angels logo was clearly pressed up against the window. Knowing how harshly the Hells Angels dealt with non-members who wear their logo, the Outlaws realized that one of the enemy had blundered into their midst. While one biker was left to tail the bus, Parente and the others sped to Sault Ste. Marie to pick up some weapons and an inconspicuous car. When they finally caught up with the bus again, it was heading north along the eastern edge of Lake Superior. They followed it at a discreet distance until it turned off on Highway 101 to Wawa. An old mining town of about 3,500, Wawa didn’t have an actual bus terminal. Instead, the bus stopped in front of Mr. Muggs, a 24-hour coffee shop that specializes in chocolate fudge doughnuts. Genest, Nadeau and a 17-year-old girl who was traveling with them got off the bus to eat.

  Fifteen minutes later, as the passengers were getting back on the bus in the dark, a car drove by with the windows open. With no target more specific than the bus itself, the men in the car, later described as h
aving long hair, beards and leather jackets, opened fire. In the ten seconds or so of shooting, screaming and glass shattering, startled bus riders dove to the ground and instinctively covered their heads. Nobody was seriously injured, but the bus was a mess. All the passengers could do was sit in Mr. Muggs and wait for the police to come. In their investigation, the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) found 56 hits of PCP hidden in a cigarette box in a trash can. Genest, Nadeau and the girl were interviewed separately and exhaustively about the shooting and the drugs. Unable to get them to crack, the police released them. Genest and Nadeau waited in Mr. Muggs for the next bus back to Montreal and the girl accepted a ride with police back to Sault Ste. Marie. No fewer than 20 witnesses noticed the “Support Your Local Outlaws” bumper sticker on the back of Parente’s car.

  The party went on without Genest and Nadeau, and on July 23, 1983, the Hells Angels had expanded to the Pacific Coast as chapters from Vancouver, Nanaimo and White Rock received their patches. With the westward expansion Buteau, always a respected biker and leader, established himself as something of a statesman.

  At the opposite end of the underworld spectrum lurked Gino Goudreau. Nervous and small, the 22-year-old Goudreau was a minor league criminal who sold stolen goods and drugs, including cocaine when he could get his hands on it. He worked very hard to fly under the Hells Angels’ radar. On the few occasions he encountered them, he slunk away, chastened, claiming that he was just hanging out. They thought he was comical and never took him seriously.

  Perhaps they should have. Ever ambitious, Buteau was always meeting with representatives from other clubs, hoping to forge alliances. On the night of September 8, he and René Lamoureaux, a Montreal Hells Angel with strong ties to the Eastern headquarters in Manhattan and the best English-language skills in the chapter, were entertaining an important visitor in a Sorel strip bar called Le Petit Bourg. Guy “Frenchy” Gilbert was in town representing the Kitchener chapter of the Satan’s Choice, one of three chapters that hadn’t patched over to the Outlaws, and they were discussing setting up the first Hells Angels outpost in Ontario.